


Checkmate

by Tammaiya



Category: Tortall - Tamora Pierce
Genre: M/M, Manipulation, Not Happy, Twisted, Unhealthy Relationships
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2005-01-24
Updated: 2005-01-24
Packaged: 2018-08-15 12:33:18
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,128
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8056591
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tammaiya/pseuds/Tammaiya
Summary: Roger and Thom play a game of chess.Shot glass chess, as it so happens.





	Checkmate

**Author's Note:**

  * For [schiarire](https://archiveofourown.org/users/schiarire/gifts).



"Check."  
  
Thom stared at the pieces on the board and then up at Roger. "You did that on purpose," he accused.  
  
"Well, that is the aim of chess, dear boy," Roger said, amusement heavily lacing his tone. "To threaten the other player's king. It's a game I've always found myself quite fond of, really."  
  
"Not that," Thom said sullenly. "You checked me in a position where I had no choice other than taking your piece."  
  
"Perfectly within the rules." Roger smiled calmly. "And that is the aim of this version of chess, is it not? Not merely to win, but to win with as little pieces as possible."  
  
"To get me drunk, you mean," Thom corrected him, scowling down at the shot glasses spread across the board. "This is a stupid game."  
  
Roger laughed, voice rich like the deep purple doublet he wore. "You just don't like losing. You are such a poor sport, aren't you?"  
  
"I'm not losing," Thom protested, but it was half-hearted. The real question was not chess; the real question was of using this as a cunning means of getting Thom drunk when he would have refused that much liqueur offered straight out. Thom had a sharp mind, logical enough to read a game such as this far in advance, but his opponent played even less fair than he did-- Roger had the skill to manipulate Thom into playing by his tune and still threaten the king's position.  
  
It was, after all, a game he had played every day for years.  
  
To leave his king in check was an illegal move; his king did not have enough mobility to save itself, and so Thom was forced take Roger's piece with his own and drink the brandy.  
  
A knight for a knight, one black one white. The unintentional rhyme irritated Thom even more, and, wincing at the burn at the back of his throat when he tossed the shot down, he wondered if the ironic symbolism was intentional.  
  
He wondered only for a second, however. He was playing Roger; of course it was.  
  
Roger's hand hovered over another piece, one that could easily be moved to check in several different ways. Thom narrowed his eyes, reading the moves again; no, not just check. One way would be check, the other checkmate.  
  
"Check."  
  
"Stop playing with me," Thom snapped.  
  
Roger laughed. "It's a game, Thom. The whole point is that we're playing, is it not?"  
  
Thom made a disgusted noise at the back of his throat. "Not like that. Toying, then. You could easily have made that checkmate."  
  
"Are you going to drink?" Roger asked him. "Or forfeit?"  
  
Thom was already drunker than he ought to be. His thought processes were getting fuzzy, the room was too hot and his motor reflexes were growing clumsy-- he hated substances that altered perception.  
  
Not as much as he hated losing, however.  
  
"Fine," he spat out, taking Roger's piece with a vicious clink of glass and throwing back the alcohol quickly. Too quickly: he almost choked on it, coughing violently. Roger stood, a slight smile still gracing his lips, and circled the table to help Thom to his feet, hand lingering a little too long for comfort. By the time Thom could breathe again he was blushing and in a thoroughly foul mood.  
  
"Don't look so pleased with yourself, you smug bastard," he said hoarsely. "Get on with the game."  
  
"No, I don't think I will," Roger said thoughtfully, casting a sly sideways look at Thom as his smile grew. "I think I'll forfeit."  
  
"What?" Thom exclaimed heatedly. "You're winning, you can't just--"  
  
"Exactly," Roger cut him off, tone artfully bored. "It was very unlikely that I would lose from that position. A game holds no interest when you already know the outcome."  
  
A statement with many layers, just as Roger's statements always were. Thom snarled, thoroughly sick of Roger's mind games, and tried to push past him; Roger laughed, restraining him with an arm across his shoulders and giving him a slight shove so in his clumsy state of inebriation he stumbled back several steps into the wall behind him, breath rushing out of his lungs with an 'oof!'.  
  
"I think you're drunk, my boy," Roger said, voice nearing a purr. "What do you have to say to that?"  
  
"I'd say it's your fault," Thom said churlishly. "And that you're a complete prat sometimes, but if I did I wouldn't be saying anything either of us didn't know, would I? So just get off."  
  
Roger's eyes were bright, deriving as always twisted enjoyment from his manipulating of others. "Why ever would I want to do that? Really, I had such high expectations of you. _Do_ learn to think a little. But then, I do suppose you're drunk."  
  
The last was said with dark amusement. Thom rolled his eyes, struggling half-heartedly against Roger's grip. He wondered at times why he insisted on playing with fire, but as Alanna always said, insanity ran in their family. Unpredictability interested him; most people were so dull.  
  
"What do you want, Roger?"  
  
"What makes you think I want anything?" Roger challenged back. "Perhaps I simply enjoy watching you struggle."  
  
Thom went limp and glared. "You would. Twisted bastard."  
  
"Now, now," Roger chided him. "That wasn't very nice. Don't you think you should apologise?"  
  
Thom snorted. "Over your dead body."  
  
Another laugh. "But I am dead, boy, or at the very least I was. You of all people should know that." Roger stepped closer so it was not only his arms pinning Thom to the wall, breath warm on Thom's face. Thom froze.  
  
"Get off," Thom ordered unsteadily.  
  
"I don't think so," Roger murmured, and pressed his mouth firmly against Thom's. Thom yelled a muffled protest, intensifying his struggling and trying to knee Roger before it occurred to him to bite down as hard as he could, not quite hard enough to draw blood. Roger chuckled, not breaking the kiss, and tightened his hold on Thom's wrists until it felt like they were cracking. Thom gasped from the pain, arching out from the wall into Roger, and Roger took advantage of the opportunity to slip his tongue into Thom's mouth.  
  
Thom ceased any pretence at resistance, going loose and pliant in Roger's arms as he allowed the older sorcerer to kiss him. He probably would have slid down the wall if he weren't being pushed back into it so hard; when Roger finally released his mouth, Thom's head fell limply to Roger's shoulder, his breath coming in shallow rasping pants. Roger let go of one wrist, leaving white fingerprints that faded quickly to red, to sweep Thom's hair back. He turned his head towards Thom, lips brushing the shell of the redhead's ear.  
  
"Checkmate."


End file.
